


The Sense of an Italian Love Song

by MechBull



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Brief Nicky/OMC, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, brief Joe/OMC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:14:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27784315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MechBull/pseuds/MechBull
Summary: It took Joe a second to recognize her, and then his stomach dropped.“You are the new one,” he said.“I need your help...They’ve been taken. Andy, Booker – ”“Nicolo?”“All of them,” she confirmed.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 101
Kudos: 371





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is largely, I don’t know, Teen and Up? Only a few scenes get steamier (high mature, low explicit probably), but it’s a VERY SLOW burn. I also don’t tag to warn OR advertise for sex positions or roles for any of my fics and never have. I have _views_ on that, even in fandoms that are not so heavily engaged in discourse over it. If you have particular questions or concerns about triggers, etc., feel free to contact me.

Joe put the plastic bag on the floor just inside his front door as he took off and hung up his jacket. The smell emanating from it made his stomach rumble with hunger, reminding him it had been smart to pick dinner up from the place on the corner rather than actually force himself to cook after work. He bent over to grab the bag again and walked to his couch, bypassing the hardly-used dining table in favor of the coffee table as usual. He grabbed the remote, turning on the TV and flipping to the first football game he found. He threw the remote onto the cushion next to him and leaned forward to pull open the bag. 

“Mmm,” he said aloud as he pulled out the plastic container. 

He took off the steamed-up lid, dug around for the disposable fork in the bag, and was just about to take a bite when there was an urgent knock on the door. He turned and stared with no small amount of confusion and just a little concern. It wasn’t like he was expecting any visitors. 

He had been something of a loner for far too long, after all. 

Joe shook his head and stood, hoping it was a neighbor or a mistake rather than someone selling a useless product or religion. When he arrived at the door, he pulled it open without even looking through the peephole. 

Out in the hall, wearing an apprehensive expression, was a young Black woman who looked like she had been in a recent scuffle or several. It took Joe a second to recognize her, and then his stomach dropped. 

“You are the new one,” he said. 

It wasn’t a question. He had seen her in his dreams, and the others through her. Andromache still authoritative but noticeably _tired_. The Frenchman – Booker, Joe thought they called him – tired in a different way and clearly not happy that another person had been cursed with their _affliction_. And Nicolo. Nicky, these days, it seemed. Kind and comforting and welcoming, his voice as lyrical and thick-accented as ever. 

Her appearance had surprised him, only a few days ago. If it hadn’t been for the trauma of her first death, he might not have even realized there was someone new. He probably would have just assumed he was seeing them through Booker again. But he had dreamed of Booker less and less over the years, as if whatever force or power connected them to each other had started to slowly accept that Joe wasn’t going to find the others to meet the man and they knew better than to try to find Joe again too. The dreams had come back with a vengeance, now that there was someone _else_ there, after all this time. 

He wondered how she found him so quickly – if the others had kept more detailed track of him than he would have guessed or if something in her dreams had tipped her off. How she was there, however, was less important than _why_. By herself, no less. She answered that quickly enough, though.

“I need your help,” she said, skipping over unnecessary pleasantries. 

He shook his head before he even let himself think about it. He didn’t know what was going on but – “I don’t fight. I won’t kill.”

“I don’t need you to,” she said urgently, almost as if she anticipated that response. He wondered what the others had told her about him. “I just…I need your help.”

She was so earnest, and scared, and exhausted. Joe didn’t really stand a chance, especially when she kept talking.

“They’ve been taken. Andy, Booker – ”

“Nicolo?”

“All of them,” she confirmed. 

Her eyes pleaded with him, and Joe swallowed. He looked back at the food on his table, as if it was really going to be a temptation to stay when… He reached to the side and grabbed his jacket off the hook. 

“Lead the way,” he said, as she stepped aside so he could leave the apartment.

**

Nicky groaned as he came around, the pain from his most recent death still lingering. It had been a brutal few hours, one invasive procedure after another, and he actually had started to become grateful for the ones that killed him. Those gave him at least a brief reprieve from the horror and the agony, considering the doctor – if one could call her that – didn’t bother with anesthesia or even pain meds.

The lab mice probably were treated better, he thought with a bitter scowl. 

He was alone for the moment, at least, so he took the opportunity to look around. The straps and buckles holding him down were not completely unbreakable, but in his current state, he doubted he had enough strength to make much headway before they put a stop to it. There were no windows so he couldn’t get his bearings as to where he was or even what time of day it was. Machines around him beeped, monitoring vital signs that were still a little erratic. He tried to calm himself, taking several breaths until the numbers dropped to better levels. He’d be no good to himself or anyone if he couldn’t maintain some kind of control, after all. 

The door to the lab opened and Nicky turned towards it, bracing himself for the next experiment. But it wasn’t the woman who had been slicing into him. 

It was Andy and Booker. 

And they weren’t, as he hoped and predicted would be the case eventually, there to rescue him. Some of Merrick’s goons held onto them, forcing them into the room and towards two exam beds that had been sitting empty. Nicky tried to sit up, lean closer, figure out how they were doing and what had happened to them.

The discovery that Andy was not healing was so shocking, he couldn’t even really comprehend what Booker’s statements of guilt meant. The conversation continued on around them, with Merrick and the doctor discussing this new development and what it meant for their sadistic experiments. Nicky tried once again to convince them how pointless it all was.

“Everything has to die, Mr. Merrick,” he said. “The only reason we haven’t is that it’s not our time yet. If it’s now Andromache’s, nothing you can do will stop it.”

“You’d be surprised by what my products can do. I will carve slices off you for years to get what I want.” He stepped closer in a childlike attempt to seem more menacing. “Your time is coming.”

Nicky did not change his tone at all, aware that his calm demeanor was far more intimidating than Merrick could hope to be. “As is yours.”

Merrick didn’t seem to appreciate that. With one large step, he closed the distance between them and reached out for the tray of instruments, which nearly toppled as he picked up a scalpel. Nicky was hardly able to react as Merrick sliced across his neck and throat in one tight, quick arc. In the mercifully few seconds of consciousness as he choked on his own blood, he could hear Andy and Booker shouting in rage. 

And then there was nothing.

**

Nicolo wondered if the world was ending, or if he had died and was in eternal torment. They had finally made their way into the city, and the fighting had spread throughout the streets. The brutal violence had only increased since then, and Nicolo found it difficult to breathe, see, think. Perhaps he just didn’t want to think. Somehow, he had managed to separate his mind from the horrors around him, stepping over countless corpses as he tried desperately not to join them in death.

Nothing about this seemed all that holy. 

A wave of fleeing people forced him down a narrow street, barely more than a crevice between buildings, and suddenly Nicolo found himself alone. Half-grateful for the moment of relative peace and half-cautious about being caught without any of his comrades, he slowed to a creeping pace, holding his sword in anticipation of having to block a blow. 

A door to his left opened unexpectedly, and Nicolo whirled and found himself facing a man approximately his own age. He held a small blade in his hands, more of a utensil or tool than a weapon. He was not wearing armor. His simple tunic and the knife were covered in blood, however. When Nicolo looked past him into the room, he realized it was most likely from a large number of wounded people resting on every available surface. There were soldiers, yes, but also women and children and old people. 

Nicolo focused on the man again. Neither one moved. He knew he should kill him and move on, that the city might have been overrun but it wasn’t captured yet, and every member of the force was needed to finally succeed. But – even if he were the enemy – Nicolo could not see this man as a threat. It was harder to take the life of someone who – 

Several running people entered the street, one blindly pushing into Nicolo. He lost his balance, his sword running through the man’s side, low in his abdomen. They fell towards each other. The man’s eyes widened in shock and his mouth twisted into a grimace, and Nicolo suspected his own expression was something similar. The man raised a hand, gripping Nicolo’s shoulder as he began to lose strength in his legs.

“Yusuf!” called a terrified voice from inside the room. 

The sound brought Nicolo back to full awareness of his surroundings. He pulled the sword back, causing the man to grunt as it cleared his body. Both of them turned to the person who had shouted. Nicolo saw it was a young man – no, not even. Perhaps only a child. He ran closer to the door, awkwardly wielding a curved sword that was too large for him. Out of the corner of his eye, Nicolo saw the man hold out a weak and trembling hand in warning or fear, trying to get the boy to stay back. 

He didn’t, though, and in instinctive self-defense, Nicolo raised his own sword against the new, if small, danger. It was at that moment that he realized he had dismissed the other man too early. With a shout, the man buried his knife into Nicolo’s neck. Nicolo dropped his sword, collapsing against the doorframe as he raised his hands to the spurting wound. It accomplished nothing at all, of course, and he fell to the ground as the blackness consumed him.

The attack had been surprising enough. It was nothing compared to how he felt when he stirred again. He pushed himself up and looked around. Some time must have passed. The room in front of him was empty now, except for the people who must have been too injured to move and were now either dead or unconscious. Nicolo lifted one hand to his neck, unable to comprehend the smooth, uncut skin he felt. He looked to the side and saw the body of the man who had stabbed him even as he died himself.

And he saw the body begin to move. Nicolo stared at the man in disbelief as he forced himself up with a groan. Soon, they made eye contact again. A brief moment of hesitation, of confused shock, and then they were both shouting and reaching out for their weapons again.

**

Nick suspected he had not moved for close to an hour by the time a slight commotion indicated someone was joining him. He lifted away from the gun for a moment, glancing over at Sebastian as he leaned against the wall of the trench next to him. Sebastian nodded in acknowledgment as he leaned forward, lighting his cigarette before speaking. He kept his fingers curled around the burning end so he didn’t unintentionally reveal his location to Nick’s counterpart across No Man’s Land.

“Any movement?”

Nick shook his head, but returned to his watch anyway. He and Sebastian still had little to say to each other, decades after Sebastian joined Andrea and him. But these days, they only had each other. Andrea was not at the front because she didn’t care to pose as a man this time around and instead was always away on various spy runs, wanting more action than nursing would allow. 

“They seem to actually be taking a break,” Nick added.

“How kind of them,” Sebastian mumbled, taking a drag of his cigarette. 

“No shooting for once and yet you still couldn’t sleep?” Nick prompted, knowing the other man was supposed to be off duty.

“Dreams.”

“Your family?” Nick asked gently. 

“Your friend,” Sebastian replied.

Nick blinked but revealed no further reaction. He was far too experienced at this. But that didn’t mean he didn’t feel anything. It was honestly silly that his heart still picked up its pace at any mention of Yusuf, after all these centuries apart. 

“Is he at the Eastern or Western front?” Nick finally responded, trying to pass off his interest as a joke. But he also was curious if this war, this Great War they called it as if it weren’t just the latest in a long line of futile conflicts, was enough to ensnare even Yusuf. He hoped not, for Yusuf’s sake and maybe a little bit for his own. He wanted to think of him safe and as happy as he could be at a time like this. 

“A hospital somewhere,” Sebastian said, and Nick nodded. Made sense. “Can’t tell where, exactly, but not military. Too many women and old men. La grippe, I think.”

Nick nodded again. Made even more sense. Yusuf would have of course treated as many wounded soldiers as he could have these last few years, but this deadly new plague would have fascinated him. And the fact that so many trained doctors and nurses were part of the war effort, leaving so few at home for the innocents left behind, would have compelled him to focus his efforts on those overcome by illness rather than injury.

Sebastian didn’t speak for a minute or two, but the silence was at least somewhat comfortable. 

“He looks tired,” he eventually observed. “And alone.” 

Nick breathed in and out again. “Aren’t we all?” he finally asked.

**

Giuseppe jerked awake, an inexplicable rush coursing through his body. He sat up, looking around the room for a moment, wondering where the danger was. But there was nothing there, and the only sounds were the lapping of the sea against the shore outside the window and the soft and even breaths of the man next to him.

It was stupid, an unnecessary risk, to have stayed, to have fallen asleep. But it had been so long since he shared a bed with anyone. And this man, with his hair flopping into his eyes, his prominent nose, his soft voice that whispered Italian as he clung to Giuseppe, as they moved together…it was too much to resist. He was just the right size, just the right shape, and so Giuseppe, his ass and thighs still sticky with the other man’s seed, had curled around him, wanting to embrace him for just a _moment_. His memories had tumbled right back to how he and Nicolo used to sleep hundreds of lifetimes ago. It had been just that between them, of course, a way to conserve warmth but it was still – 

“Beppe, lie down,” came a soft mumble, the words slurring together with sleepiness. 

Giuseppe exhaled, slowly lowering down to his back. He tried to calm himself, so he could return to his dreams and – 

His eyes flew open. That was what had woken him. A dream. Not just any dream. More of a nightmare, full of death and pain. And not his own. The man had been drunk when he fell in a back alley, accosted by angry men, perhaps due to a loss at some game or bet. Their anger was so powerful, they even ignored the uniform that identified the man as a soldier of Napoleon’s. 

Giuseppe’s breath turned shallow as he realized what he had seen, what he had _felt_ as if it had happened to him instead – how the man, sometime later, had returned to life, fully healed. 

He had not had dreams like that for hundreds of years, not since he had met Andromache. It had been a shock when he realized that the woman who had flitted through his dreams for so long was not only a real person but actually standing across from him in the bazaar one day. And even more of a shock to see the man who annoyingly haunted his daydreams as well as his nightly ones standing at her side. Nicolo had already been with her for some time by then, apparently, although he had never realized that the glimpses of him with her were anything but his mind’s creation. He had always figured, although he refused to admit it, that most of the time he saw Nicolo, it was because his unconscious imagination craved it.

Andromache explained so much to him that night, in the rooms Giuseppe – still Yusuf (or more accurately, Yusuf again) back then – slept in and practiced out of, caring for his patients in exchange for whatever they could barter and sometimes for nothing at all when they couldn’t afford even that. She told him about the dreams connecting people like them, and that he and Nicolo had never had them about each other because they met each other so early – which was one way to put it, he supposed.

And then she explained why he no longer dreamed about the other woman, about how she had bled out not so long ago, relatively speaking, and did not rise again, and how that had compelled them to search for Yusuf in earnest. Yusuf did not know what to feel when he learned that they _could_ die, that someday he _would_ die. He didn’t know why he looked at Nicolo then, when he’d been avoiding his eyes all night. Nicolo did not say anything, but he held Yusuf’s gaze for a long, serious moment before Yusuf had to look away again. 

The following morning, Andromache spoke of their next moves, her comments clearly indicating that she assumed, even expected, Yusuf would accompany them. Between the disconcerting things he had learned the night before, the things that made him feel more alone than he had in ages, and the sounds of Nicolo sleeping near him again, he almost agreed. But so many of her stories were of conflicts, warriors and weapons, unending violence and short-lived victories not worth the cost. 

And perhaps, more importantly, Nicolo had glanced at him as if he already knew what Yusuf would say. As if he had no intention or desire to extend his own invitation, and it made Yusuf wonder if _both_ of them had actually even wanted to seek him out. When Yusuf declined, Nicolo hadn’t said anything. He just nodded once and continued to pack his belongings, strapping a very familiar sword to his waist. 

“It was nice to finally meet you,” Yusuf had eventually said to Andromache, “but I prefer to – I have a different purpose.”

She tried to change his mind, tried to explain that it would be much more difficult, if not impossible, to find each other again, without the dreams. She looked at Nicolo, like she was waiting for him to say something, like she thought he could convince Yusuf when she hadn’t been able to, like she couldn’t understand why he remained silent. But Nicolo didn’t say anything, and Yusuf felt rather paralyzed as Andromache finally accepted his decision. 

Nicolo stayed behind after she left, and they stared at each other. Yusuf thought maybe, finally, they would exchange some words, talk to _each other_ for the first time now that the buffer or barrier of Andromache was gone. Some part of him wondered if ( _hoped that_ ) they would even embrace, as they had the last time they said goodbye. 

But then, Nicolo nodded once and turned and followed his new travel partner. Yusuf watched him until he disappeared into the crowd of the city. It hurt to breathe, and the painful recognition that this wasn't any easier the second time around was overwhelming. 

He never dreamed of Andromache again. Part of him wished he could say the same about Nicolo, but he knew those weren’t controlled by whatever mystical power linked the immortals to each other and so wouldn’t be so easily stopped. 

Giuseppe inhaled deeply, trembling slightly as the details of the new dream continued to drift through his mind. He wondered why there was another immortal now, for the first time in so long. He wondered how many years it would take before Andromache and Nicolo found him. He couldn’t bring himself to even think that either one of them (that _Nicolo_ ) might have died for real at some point since he last saw them. 

He wondered if, when they did find him, he would see the others in his dreams again, through this new immortal’s eyes. The strangely terrifying hope of it kept him awake the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more notes: I did SOME (Wikipedia) research for this, but probably only as much or even more as was apparently done for the movie or even the comics. Let’s be real, they aren’t exactly rich in historically accurate details… So, my strategy, as usual, is to include enough vague “hand-waving” to make things seem plausible while still being free enough to tell the story I want to. 
> 
> Also, as someone who typically reads fanfic on a cheap, old tablet that doesn’t lend itself well to going back and forth to Google or hovering over text or whatever, I really hate dialogue in different languages. I certainly get the value of it for some aspects – including characterization – but at the same time, it takes me out of the story at best and is inaccessible at worst. And given how languages change over time, indicating a language in the narrative rather than the dialogue is just as effective and arguably _more realistic_ than trying to fake it using modern versions. All that to say – I do not attempt to Google Translate anything here. We know the members of the Old Guard can and do speak multiple languages, and that some of those are modern and some of them are obsolete. Simply use your imaginations and your common sense, as well as context clues, to figure out what they would be speaking when! 
> 
> Apologies for killing off Quynh. It just seemed hard to believe that they would willingly let Joe stay alone if they lost Quynh in the canon way and yet I needed a reason for her to be lost to them all the same. 
> 
> The title comes from Jane Austen’s _Persuasion_ , when Anne is translating the concert song for Mr. Elliot. The full quote is: “‘This,’ said she, ‘is nearly the sense, or rather the meaning of the words, for certainly the sense of an Italian love-song must not be talked of…’” It's mostly meant as an obscure joke/reference.


	2. Chapter 2

Nicky was grabbing the gun under his pillow before he even figured out what it was that had woken him. Almost immediately, he realized there was no danger, just Nile sitting up on her bed and breathing heavily. Nicky put the gun down and reached out to turn on the lamp. He grimaced at the light – not to mention from the rude awakening – and looked at the others. Booker was on the bed in between Nile’s and Nicky’s, propping himself up on his elbows, and Andy was walking into the room, looking like she hadn’t been sleeping at all. 

“What is it, Nile?” Booker asked. 

“Nothing, just a dream. Sorry.”

Nicky glanced at Andy, sharing a quick moment of suspicion with her. He rubbed at his eye. “Tell us.”

Whatever she had dreamt about, it most likely had _something_ to do with her new immortality. The least they could do was help her through the transition. They had all been there, after all. 

“It was – a man. I dreamt of him before, with the rest of you, but I didn’t remember. Middle Eastern, or North African, maybe. Curly hair, bushy beard. He was upset, scared, trying to hide it. He – he was trying to save a kid in a hospital. There was…blood everywhere. He was a doctor, maybe? Or a nurse?”

This time, Nicky did not look at Andy, or at Booker for that matter, even though they both looked to him. He did not need their sympathetic expressions to know they considered it his responsibility to explain Nile’s dreams. 

Nicky inhaled. “That’s Yusuf,” he said, his voice soft but rough, which he decided to blame on the lateness of the dark night.

“Who is he?” Nile asked.

Nicky smiled quickly. “He killed me.” He tilted his head in allowance. “We killed each other. We first met during the Crusades.”

Nile gaped. “The Crusades?” 

He nodded with some amusement, as he realized she hadn’t made what he felt was the obvious conclusion when he told her how old he was. What _did_ they teach in schools these days? But he knew focusing on that was just his way of avoiding the main issue. 

“He is immortal, also. The only person who knew what I was going through was of the people I had been taught to hate. We killed each other many times.” Nicky paused, remembering the terror and confusion and the pain and the ultimate relief when – “Eventually, we reached a truce, and we traveled together for about 100 years. We…went our separate ways after the Third Crusade. The last time I saw him was – a while ago.”

“Before I came along,” Booker muttered, before adding, “I still dream about him sometimes too. Would be nice to put a stop to that.”

“It was a while ago,” Nicky repeated, hoping his tone indicated he wasn’t going to expand on that particular encounter. He pretended he didn’t even hear Booker’s _hint_ that they should seek him out, if for no other reason so that Booker could get rid of at least one of the ghosts who haunt him. He had been pointedly ignoring those kinds of comments for almost two centuries and wasn’t about to start entertaining them now. 

“Why isn’t he here? With the rest of you?”

Nicky looked at Andy again, but all she did was raise her eyebrows at him. Nicky sighed. “He’s a pacifist, you would say. Even back when – he wasn’t fighting during the siege. He was taking care of the wounded. All these years, he has chosen to save lives, rather than take them. He doesn’t…approve…of our methods.”

Andy hummed, the way she always did when the subject of Yusuf came up. Nicky knew that she had figured out long ago that there was more to the story, but he didn’t force her to talk about Quynh and she didn’t force him to talk about Yusuf, and that was an unspoken agreement that had worked for them _just fine_. 

“He’s in London,” Nile said suddenly. 

Nicky felt like his heart stopped. The confirmation that he was still alive had been nice to hear, but the information that he was only a day’s drive away was… He couldn’t bring himself to speak, though, suspecting his voice would have just been a sharp squeak if he tried. So, he was happy when Andy was the one to reply.

“How do you know?”

Nile closed her eyes, holding her hand in front of herself, as if she was trying to spark the memory with movement. “I saw – I saw his nametag. I saw the name of the hospital.”

Andy looked over at Nicky. “Maybe we should go say hi.”

“Maybe we should go back to sleep,” Nicky countered. He punctuated the statement by reaching over to turn off the lamp and lying back down.

**

Joe and Nile leaned against either side of the rear door of the building the others were supposedly being held in. Nile held up an access card.

“I got this from Copley.”

“The guy who – ?”

“Yeah. He said it should get us through just about every door. The lab should be on the 15th floor. He doesn’t know how many guards we’ll see, so just…stay behind me. And don’t get shot.”

Joe sighed. “I’ll do my best, but really I think my only contribution here is to be a distraction target and maybe help drag you and the others along as you heal.”

She reached behind her back and unexpectedly pulled out another gun. She held it out to him. 

Joe shook his head. 

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve never shot one. It’s probably more dangerous for me to have it. If you have a saif somewhere in that pack, I might have some body memory, although I never had any sort of real training on that either.”

Nile raised her eyebrows but didn’t argue much. “I have Andy’s axe.”

“Ha. I’m not touching her stuff. The goal is to minimize the number of times any of us die today.”

With a quirk of her lips into a small smile, Nile faced the door again. “Ready?”

Joe inhaled, exhaled again, looked up at the building. “As I’ll ever be.”

His mental count, by the time they found the door to the lab, was four GSWs for Nile, one of them fatal, and 12 for him, a few that should have killed him but miraculously healed before they could. The discrepancy, of course, was mostly because he did as he promised and took as many hits as possible so she could focus on fighting their way through. If he had known how much bullets hurt, he might have rethought that plan. 

She killed at least seven of the guards, but he was trying not to let that tally bother him too much. Knowing these people were brutally torturing Nicolo and the others somewhere else made him less concerned, if he were being honest. 

He was still healing from the last bullet, which hit far too close to his spine, when Nile swiped the card through the reader just before it exploded. She pushed the door open with one hand even as she twisted to aim her gun behind her. Joe backed away, clearing out of the way so Nile could take out the guard who had tried to stop them. 

Then she was through the door, and Joe followed, slamming it shut behind them for a little extra time or protection. The others were sitting up in surprise, as much as they could against the straps holding them to the exam tables, at least. 

“Nile!” Andromache and Booker said simultaneously, but Nicolo said “Yusuf” in a quite breathless tone.

Joe took in the sight of his old partner and friend. He was shirtless, a sheet draped over his lap. Traces of blood had dried on his healed skin, but the specimens on the tray next to the bed revealed everything that had been…removed from him.

Joe felt sick.

“Yusuf!” Nicolo said again, this time louder and with more warning.

He turned, seeing a woman in a lab coat coming towards him with a needle and syringe filled with something. Before he had any chance to even think about it, Joe swung his arm out and clocked her right in the face. She spun, hit the door and crumpled to the ground, unconscious. 

No one said anything for a long beat, and Joe stared at his hand. 

“Pacifist, huh?” Nile finally asked.

“Told you we all fear being captured,” Andromache said, laughing in an annoyingly knowing sort of way, as Nile finally started moving, walking over to unstrap Andromache from her bed. 

Joe shook his head, choosing not to respond. It seemed like a better explanation for his sudden fury and violence, if perhaps not an accurate one. He stepped over to Nicolo’s side and started working on the strap. It took extraordinary effort not to acknowledge the look that Nicolo was giving him.

**

It was very early, just before dawn, but Yusuf had not slept at all that night. Although the fire had died out, it was warm enough where the temperature was not an excuse, especially considering he was wrapped around Nicolo, as they had taken to sleeping about two decades ago. They still had most of the food they’d traded for earlier in the week, so hunger wasn’t an excuse either.

The nearly overwhelming lust he was just barely holding at bay probably contributed to his sleeplessness, but it was something he was used to by then. Even when Nicolo shifted in his sleep and pushed his hips back against Yusuf, he only allowed a small groan, a spasm of his fingers as he resisted pulling him even closer, and nothing more. 

No, what kept him awake was nothing as…basic as any of those feelings or needs. But when they had been in the village, they heard of a new Crusade, _another_ Crusade, and with one glance at each other, Yusuf felt a crack form in their still too fragile _thing_. 

They had traveled seemingly aimlessly for the last several days, but it became pretty obvious pretty quickly that Nicolo was trying to direct them on a path Yusuf was trying to avoid. The tension was starting to become obvious as well, even surpassing the different kind of tension that had been growing between them (or so Yusuf had felt). 

He sighed, his breath ruffling through Nicolo’s hair. If they avoided this discussion much longer, it would lead to a much more distressing, disastrous goodbye than the one he had already started to envision. Even before this, he knew that he could never really have Nicolo the way he wanted him, that they were not as compatible as he tried to convince himself they were, and he wasn’t strong enough to spend eternity always wanting more. Or, to be honest, always cleaning up the carnage left behind in Nicolo’s wake. 

Nicolo shifted again, moaning and tensing slightly in the way he did before he woke up. Yusuf smiled softly, enjoying the last few minutes Nicolo would be in his arms, that night at least. He wanted to pull him closer, to press his lips to the back of Nicolo’s neck and press his – 

Nicolo turned around, careful not to dislodge Yusuf’s arms. They peered at each other silently through the dim morning light. Nicolo’s eyes flicked down to Yusuf’s lips, and Yusuf broke the silence.

“I will go with you,” he said. Nicolo’s eyes widened, and Yusuf suddenly remembered the time he said those same words back before they were anything. “There will be wounded – women, children, and the elderly. So, I will go with you.”

Nicolo nodded, still silent. He seemed almost scared to respond, as if he’d started to guess what Yusuf would say next. 

“But then I think we should go our separate ways,” Yusuf forced himself to continue. 

Nicolo dropped his gaze, and Yusuf watched as he worked his jaw. Unexpectedly, Nicolo reached out across the almost non-existent distance between them and pressed the tips of his fingers against Yusuf’s belly. It took all he had to control his body’s response to that contact. 

“Is it because of – ”

“No,” Yusuf interrupted, unable to hear Nicolo acknowledge the feelings that Yusuf knew he had never truly concealed and that Nicolo would never truly return. “No.”

But Nicolo didn’t look at him again. He simply nodded a few times, unable to completely hide the pain on his face, and rolled away. He pushed off the ground and stood. 

“Let’s go then,” he said.

\--

Nicolo found Yusuf after the end of it all. He was covered in the blood of the soldiers that he had killed and Yusuf was covered in the blood of the victims that he had been unable to save. Nicolo looked around at the bodies surrounding Yusuf. He knew that whatever good he had done on the battlefield, it hadn’t been enough. It probably would never be enough.

And it was too much for Yusuf, who was still so gentle and still too heartbreakingly hopeful to fit in with all of this. Far too kind to be honest with Nicolo and just tell him –

The one thing that he could give Yusuf, the one thing he had asked of Nicolo, was to leave him. To stop bringing him into each new mess and scrape that Nicolo hoped might finally be the last one. But he had to be _sure_.

“It’s over,” he said.

Yusuf nodded slowly. 

“So…I will go now.”

Yusuf inhaled deeply, and for a moment, Nicolo hoped that – 

Yusuf nodded again and looked away. Neither one moved further though. Nicolo felt as if he physically couldn’t move. He wanted to beg, but before he could, Yusuf tried to explain. Again. 

“I can’t do this anymore,” he said softly. “I can’t live like this.”

And then Nicolo said his part again, in this conflict that could never be resolved. “I have to atone.”

“There are other ways to do that,” Yusuf said urgently, stepping towards him, narrowing the distance between them that just couldn’t be closed. 

“What should I do?” Nicolo asked, laughing once bitterly. “Should I go back to the priesthood and promise them all eternal forgiveness and peace, knowing none of it is real and even if it was, envying that God will give them what He won’t give me?”

Yusuf didn’t have a response to that, of course. There was no answer, because he couldn’t explain it either. 

So, Nicolo gave into the temptation he often managed to resist and pulled Yusuf into a gentle hug, knowing it was their final farewell. And as Yusuf held him, as he tightened his embrace, Nicolo admitted in his heart that there was most likely another reason still. Even though Yusuf had denied that his desire to separate had anything to do with Nicolo’s own desires… Nicolo had seen how he stepped away when things got too tense between them, how he flinched whenever Nicolo dared to touch him in not-quite-innocent ways. He knew Yusuf cared for him, but not enough, or perhaps too much to reject him in that way, so instead he – 

Enough, Nicolo thought to himself. Enough. Neither of them would have any chance of happiness if they kept this up. And while Nicolo knew that he didn’t really deserve happiness to begin with, Yusuf did. It was time to go. 

Selfishly, he took one last thing from Yusuf, though. He pulled away from the embrace just enough to press his lips to Yusuf’s. It was a chaste, simple, even _friendly_ kiss, but it would have to be enough.

He didn’t make eye contact again, turning away as quickly as he could. He began walking, finding his way between the people, all trying to regroup. He wanted to believe he felt Yusuf’s eyes on him as he disappeared, but he didn’t look back to confirm. It wasn’t until much later, when he turned to take in the destruction almost out of sight, that he finally fell to his knees and sobbed. 

He had never felt so alone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second scene in this chapter deals with 9/11. That's recent enough where it might be particularly triggering, so if you'd like to skip it, see the end notes for a summary.
> 
>  **Also** , the first scene briefly mentions a(n unsuccessful, obviously) suicide. And, implicitly, grave-robbing.

With a deep breath, Joseph blinked his eyes open. He sat up, stretching out the kinks in his neck even as they healed. He had fallen asleep at his desk again. He was spreading himself too thin between his secretive training to improve his knowledge of the newest surgical techniques and sketching anatomical drawings that supplemented his own education as well as served as bribes for the lessons he could not formally enroll in.

The latest drawing, however, was ruined from the drool that had soaked through it during his unplanned nap. With a sigh, he crumpled the paper and tossed it aside. He reminded himself to destroy it more fully later, so the owner of his boarding house didn’t see it when she cleaned his room. It had been a decade since the Burkers and the Anatomy Act, but many people still did not take kindly to some of the more gruesome activities that came with Joseph’s chosen profession. 

He crossed his arms over the surface of the desk and stared at the lamp still dimly glowing in the corner. None of the advancements made by the most intelligent medical minds of the 19th century had been enough to save the life of the Frenchman’s last surviving son. Joseph had seen it all clearly, the boy – man, of course, as old as his father had been when he first died, but so very much a boy to Joseph and still and always a boy to his papa – shouting and crying, half-sitting in his bed despite his weakness. The bullet that the Frenchman, drunk and desperate, had shot into his own head in his grief. It had been futile, obviously, but it was probably what triggered Joseph’s dreams that evening. And then – and Joseph felt guilt that he was so happy to see a glimpse of Nicolo given the circumstances – the two immortal men sitting quietly by the bedside of the unconscious, perhaps already deceased, child. Nicolo leaned over him, murmuring prayers and rites that Joseph knew he had sworn to never administer again, a vow broken by the kindness in his heart that would want to comfort his friend despite his shunned and lapsed beliefs.

Joseph reached out, taking a fresh sheet of paper and picking up the pencil he had been working with earlier. He forgot his exhaustion as he worked. The image filled in – one of those hands he still remembered wrapped around the boy’s wrist, the other reaching out for the Frenchman out of frame, the hair falling over his closed eyes, the modern clothes that Joseph had never had the privilege of seeing Nicolo wear in person, his nose, the mark on his jaw, his broad shoulders. Joseph didn’t know how much of it was from his dream and how much of it was from his memory and how much of it was from his imagination. 

When he was satisfied – or as satisfied as he could be with nothing but a drawing – he blew the dusty shavings off the page. He looked at it for a few more minutes, then reached out for the bookshelf. He withdrew the portfolio that held his personal drawings and added this latest one to the collection he had made over the years. 

And then he started drawing the diagram of the heart again. He had watched carefully as the doctors had dissected it, sketching quick angles and taking notes to spark his memory later. The anatomical organ was not nearly as beautiful or as fragile as the metaphor would suggest, but both he and the Frenchman learned again that night how much it could hurt when it broke.

**

Nic had tasted nothing but soot and ash for days, but the smoky grittiness wasn’t nearly so unbearable on the other man’s tongue and skin. He could also feel grains embedded in the hair he lightly pulled as Amir rode him. It sparked memories of the way the sand of the desert used to –

“Amir,” Nic moaned, purposely bringing himself back to the present. 

It had been pure chance that they’d been in New York when the planes hit. They hadn’t been to the States since their Civil War, and neither Romy nor Nic were particularly upset about that, but Book had gotten it into his head to go and he actually seemed excited about it, so it was the least they could do. The vacation had turned into devastating work rather suddenly. 

After days of digging through rubble, they all needed a psychological break if not a physical one. A couple of guys from one of the FDNY ladders recommended a place that had become a bit of a gathering point. Nic had spotted the man in the corner almost immediately. For a moment, he thought it had been – 

But it wasn’t, of course. Nic was surprisingly relieved at that. He hoped Yusuf was nowhere near Ground Zero. He knew that Yusuf would _want_ to be there, if he wasn’t already, would perhaps even be trying to find a way to get there. But he didn’t want Yusuf to have to experience this horror and, well, frankly, it would probably be dangerous or at least disheartening for him. 

That was more than apparent by looking at the man – Amir, Nic would later learn – sitting all alone. Not even his firefighter shirt was enough to counteract his presumed religion. Nic watched him as they waited for the bartender to come to their corner.

Romy looked at him in surprise when he ordered two drinks at once, but the surprise quickly turned to concern when the drinks came and Nic climbed off his stool. He began to leave and Romy turned to follow his gaze and intended direction.

“Nic,” she said just loud enough to be heard over the conversations around them. “Be careful.”

“Come on,” he scolded, playing dumb.

“You know what I mean.”

He ignored her. When he approached the table in the corner, lifting one of the glasses in an introductory offer, the man seemed simultaneously suspicious and grateful. They talked for hours, dropping more and more into flirting as other patrons came and went. At one point, Nic saw Romy wave at him as she pulled a stumbling-drunk Book off his chair and towards the door. Eventually, after last call, when they were some of the only people still there, they pushed their empty glasses away and pulled their jackets on. Through an unspoken understanding, they turned the same direction after they walked out. 

Nic told himself that he walked Amir home to protect him from any misdirected violence, and that was certainly part of it. But that reason didn’t explain why Nic accepted the invitation up to his apartment or into his bed. He was attractive and a great conversationalist and the prospect of an orgasm seemed particularly appealing given the stress and despair of the last few days, though. And if there were certain similarities to…well, Nic just wouldn’t admit to them. 

With a groan, Nic pushed at Amir, guiding him onto his back while being careful not to separate so far that he pulled out. He adjusted his own position, digging his knees into the mattress for leverage and bracing his elbows on either side of Amir’s head. He thrust into Amir, fast and rough, gasping out breaths as he drew closer and closer to his release. Amir shouted out first, lifting up to wrap his arms around Nic, pulling him down sharply. The jolt triggered Nic’s climax and he shuddered in pleasure even as he groaned through a sloppy kiss. 

In the morning, Amir fed him black coffee and a real New York bagel. When it was time for them to go and start another day, they went their separate ways. Nic couldn’t and Amir didn’t offer any promises or even phone numbers. But he had to admit he had no regrets or wishes.

Well, maybe one or two, but none that had to do with Amir himself.

**

The benefit of having nearly a millennium of combat experience is that you could compartmentalize pretty easily. Nicky didn’t have the time or safety to ask why or how Yusuf was there, so his burning curiosity would just have to wait. Instead, he had to focus on neutralizing Merrick and then getting them out of there with as few wounds or deaths as possible. Merrick’s security team were the _shoot first, ask questions later_ type, so they ended up having to take out more of them than Nicky would have liked. Especially considering Yusuf was there. He knew Yusuf would certainly be keeping track of every dead body that fell.

Although Nile was new to the group, her military training served her well, and she joined easily into combat formations as they cleared room after room. Yusuf, though, bless him, was more of a hindrance than a help. Nicky didn’t disregard the courage and selflessness that had compelled him to help in the rescue, but that didn’t translate into fighting ability. 

There seemed to be no question among any of them that Yusuf would stick to Nicky’s six. Nonetheless, he had grunted out a ‘stay behind me’ at the beginning, and Yusuf thankfully didn’t argue with him on it. He hadn’t resisted an eye roll, though, which made Nicky almost-smile. 

Not that ability or experience protected any of them from the explosive blast that knocked them off their feet and filled the room with dense smoke and debris. Yusuf seemed to take the brunt of it, though, and he was the only one who was unconscious as they started to make sense of it all. If it had been anyone else, Nicky would have continued on with the mission – not out of a lack of concern but out of abundance of trust. But it wouldn’t be fair or kind or indeed smart to leave Yusuf to wake up alone and try to find them. 

He waved the others on, wordlessly reminding them that they couldn’t _all_ wait but that he wouldn’t abandon Yusuf. Again. 

As they ran off, Nicky crawled closer, coughing still, and pressed two fingers to Yusuf’s neck. He had a steady pulse – just knocked out, not dead. Hopefully, it wouldn’t take too long to heal. Nicky sighed, moved his hand to rest his palm against Yusuf’s beard-covered cheek. The circumstances forced him to take a break and gave him the opportunity to get a good look – well, good enough given the low visibility – at his old friend, and he was going to take it.

Unfortunately, the universe didn’t give him all that much time after all. The others were gone, but Yusuf was still out, when Nicky registered the presence of another person just slightly too late. The kick to his ribs was a clear signal that he had allowed himself too much distraction.

**

“Your Maltese is very good, but then, you always were good with languages.”

José nearly dropped the morning’s catch he had just purchased from the fishmonger. He turned quickly, not quite believing his own ears. But he’d recognize that voice anywhere, no matter how long it had been. 

“Nicolo,” he replied, barely above a whisper. 

He gave José a small smile in greeting, and they stared at each other for a moment before José shook his head. It was about then he noticed how closely they were standing. He stepped aside, both to put space between them and to lead Nicolo away so they could converse more privately.

“How did you find me?” he asked. 

Admittedly, he had settled in Malta the last several years at least partly out of a secret hope that Nicolo might be spending some time around Italy. He couldn’t quite convince himself to go to Genoa itself, suspecting that Nicolo would avoid his old home as well or perhaps afraid that he wouldn’t and they actually _would_ run into each other. 

José never claimed his feelings ever made any sense. 

For example: the flash of hurt and disappointment when Nicolo answered, “I wasn’t looking for you.”

“Oh.” After a brief pause, he continued. “What are you doing here then?”

Nicolo sighed, looking around quickly. “Looking for a ship.”

“Surely you’re not with _them_?” José asked, subtly indicating as they happened to pass two of the Order. He slipped enough humor into his voice to reveal that he knew Nicolo would never. 

Nicolo bristled slightly. “Damn pirates on all sides,” he cursed under his breath, making José smile. 

“No,” he continued, clipped off. Another look around, this time with an air of suspicion. “We can’t talk here, out in the open.”

José nodded, saying no more as they continued to walk. He had already been heading towards his home, for lack of a better option, so he simply picked up speed. Nicolo followed him without question or complaint. He also didn’t say anything when they entered the room – nothing more than a cot and a small cooking area and a table in the corner where José had been experimenting with making his own medicines for those who were wary of the institutions established by the Knights Hospitaller. José noticed how Nicolo's gaze lingered on the bed but he tried not to read anything into it. Instead, he nodded at the one chair in the room. 

Nicolo didn’t take it, so José stayed standing as well. 

“I just managed to get Drea out of the chains before they hung her for witchcraft, so we decided to come down here for a while to see what trouble we could get into. Probably we’ll find some trading ships to protect. She doesn’t want to stay here too long, though.” 

José nodded, but wondered why Nicolo had come home with him then. Obviously, it would have been hard to resist making contact once he’d been spotted, but Nicolo could have simply pulled José aside and talked then. Were these few moments alone together enough of a temptation to – 

“Come with me – us,” Nicolo said, just short of demanding.

“I – ” José hesitated. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel a flare of longing at those words from Nicolo that he imagined so many times. But… “You know I…”

“Won’t.”

“Can’t.” José heaved a breath, taking in Nicolo’s expression – how he was discouraged and hurt but didn’t want to show it. “I’m sorry,” José added sincerely. “I wish – ”

“I need to know you’re safe,” Nicolo interrupted. 

It wasn’t said in the tone that José would have expected – no anger or confusion at all, not even unsurprised petulance at José’s refusal. Nicolo was…tired, worried, resigned. In fact, he barely heard the words they were said so softly, as if Nicolo didn’t want to say them but couldn’t stop either. 

“I need to – know where you are. I need to protect you.”

José said nothing, not sure how to respond. Part of him wanted to remind Nicolo that he had survived just fine without him for centuries. But that seemed like a lie, somehow. His silence provoked Nicolo, who suddenly drew a concealed knife and pointed it at José’s throat. He backed up until he hit the wall, but he made no other move. The saif that he had dutifully carried around for so long was propped against the wall in the corner, gathering dust. Or if he feinted, he might buy enough time to grab one of the glass vials on the table and smash it into shards. But he made no attempt to reach either. He made a promise long ago that he would not fight Nicolo again, and he intended to keep it. 

Nicolo did not seem like much of a threat anyway. Almost immediately, he crumpled, the point of his knife lowering toward the ground as he stepped closer and grasped José’s shirt in his fist. 

“You won’t even defend yourself, Yusuf? You need to know how to – please!”

The pain on his face was hard to bear, but José still didn’t know what he could say to make all this better. He had never known, and that was why things were the way they were. That was why they were both so miserable now. 

Nicolo bent forward, resting his forehead against José’s clavicle. He felt uneven huffs of humid air ruffle through the fabric of his shirt and seep through to warm his skin.

“I can’t bear the thought of you captured and suffering.” 

José raised one shaking hand to place it on Nicolo’s shoulder. Before he could begin to find a response, the knife clattered to the ground and Nicolo lifted his head and they were kissing. It was nothing like the innocent press of lips that José had held sacred in his memory for so long after their first separation. It was hard, wet and hot, a continuation of their disagreement. The sound of their rough and ragged breaths was loud in José’s ears, but the passion that sound revealed only spurred him on. 

He pushed and pulled, turning them so Nicolo was the one with his back to the wall, and then he stepped closer, erasing any space between them as he pressed his body along Nicolo’s from head to toe. With a needy whine, Nicolo dug his hands into José’s curls, holding his head still as he plunged his tongue into José’s mouth even as he tilted his hips up to press his hard cock against José’s thigh.

José exhaled a shuddering breath, showing just enough vulnerability that Nicolo took control again. He pushed off the wall, and they stumbled over each other’s feet until José felt the cot against the back of his legs. He sat quickly, reluctantly removing one arm from Nicolo so he could prop himself up on the bed. 

As Nicolo placed his knees on either side and straddled his lap, José finally recovered his power of speech. “Wait,” he mumbled. “Nicolo, wait.” 

Wait for _what_ , he wasn’t sure. Perhaps he just meant slow down. Perhaps he didn’t want to rush this after so long. But whatever he meant, it wasn’t how Nicolo took it.

He separated entirely, pulling away from José as if they’d burned each other and standing again. He looked around the room wildly for a moment, and then walked away. He bent, picked his knife up from the ground, and then he turned to the door. 

“Nicolo, wait,” José repeated desperately, even as Nicolo pulled the door open.

“I am sorry” was the only reply. 

The next day, when José finally convinced himself to walk down to the harbor, the only sign of Nicolo was the old men who talked about the two strangers who signed onto a merchant ship for half the going rate. 

They had sailed early that morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary of 9/11 scene: Nic, Book and Romy happen to be in NY at the time, and assist with the recovery and clean-up efforts. One evening when they are relaxing at a pub, Nic sees an apparently Muslim firefighter who is being ignored. He befriends him and later sleeps with him, in part because he's thinking about Yusuf. 
> 
> A part of me really wanted to write a different scene around this time, especially touching on post-9/11 discrimination, from Joe's POV, but I was afraid I wouldn't do it justice. I hope this doesn't instead seem like I am insensitively/offensively making it "about Nicky". It was a tough decision to make. (On that note, I couldn't find exact dates in my quick searches, but I am going to assume that Joseph was not going to be admitted to any British medical schools at the time of the first scene.)
> 
> Meanwhile, I had originally drafted the Malta scene as Nicky looking for back-up to rescue Andy, but a) it didn't make sense for him to go all the way there and this HAD to be the AU version of "that time in Malta" and b) I went down a Wikipedia rabbit hole about what Malta was like at approximately the same time as the peak of the witch hunts in Europe. And now, my head canon is that the real "time in Malta" was Joe & Nicky fucking each other in between fucking with/up the Knights Hospitaller and the Barbary Pirates, because I am sure they had VIEWS on them.


	4. Chapter 4

Joe woke up coughing and disoriented, but he had no time to assess what was happening. Only feet away, Nicolo was all-out brawling with one of the guards and losing pretty badly considering the man had both a mask and quite a bit of muscle on him. Joe launched himself forward, not entirely sure how he could help but unable and unwilling to leave Nicolo alone. 

The guard kicked Nicolo right in the sternum, likely breaking a few bones if the way Nicolo fell to the ground wheezing even more than he already was from the smoke and dust was any indication. With only the two of them in the fight for a moment, the guard focused his attention entirely on Joe. It quickly became clear that Joe had no hope of succeeding where Nicolo had struggled. He got in a few lucky hits before he got a punch to the throat. 

Just then, Nicolo came back into the fray, tackling the man low around the waist. It was a good effort that failed far too quickly, as the guard spun them around, somehow ending up with his knee on Nicolo’s chest, pinning him to the ground. He pointed his gun at Nicolo’s head.

“Stop, don’t – ” Joe tried to shout through his still-healing windpipe. He knew that Nicolo would likely be fine but they never did know when would be the last time, did they? 

The guard looked at him, seemingly surprised that Joe had bothered to protest. Nicolo flailed beneath him, trying to break free, but the guard just knelt harder down on him. 

“That’s sweet,” he sneered derisively. “What is he? Your boyfriend?”

Joe sighed. God damn, he was _tired_. 

“You’re a child,” he bit out at first, but his response grew stronger and clearer with his conviction. “This man means more to me than he will ever know. His heart overflows with benevolence and compassion for the whole world. I’ve dreamed of his kiss for a millennium, although I'm not worthy of it. He’s not my _boyfriend_ – he’s all and he’s more.”

The guard stared at him in dumbfounded surprise, even as Joe inhaled a sharp breath. And then Nicolo surprised them both by swinging a fist up and knocking the mask off. Unfortunately, the guard retaliated by forcing his gun between Nicolo’s teeth and pulling the trigger.

Joe shouted out. He was lucky that the guard retreated then, because frankly he only had eyes for Nicolo. He crawled closer, growing more terrified the longer it took for Nicolo to wake up. These kinds of wounds were a nightmare to recover from, but surely by now – 

Nicolo gasped, half-sitting as he returned to consciousness. Joe exhaled in relief, reaching out to hold onto Nicolo’s arms as he calmed. Nicolo tilted his head back until they made eye contact. They stared at each other for far, far too short a time, before Nicolo began to move again.

“Let’s go. Andy.”

Joe pulled himself to his feet, exhausted and sore and admittedly not quite sure if he hoped that Nicolo was just postponing a clearly much-needed talk between them, given the more urgent matters at hand, or that the gunshot knocked the memory of Joe’s embarrassing and poorly timed confession out of his memory.

**

Nicolo half-sat as he came back to life _again_. He coughed a couple times, still not quite accepting that this kept happening. He should be dead dozens of times over. He ran his hands over his torso, finding no trace of any of the numerous wounds he had suffered the last several days.

And then, his attention was pulled from his miraculous survival to his counterpart’s. A few feet away, his enemy stirred again. Their unending battle had brought them far out of the city as they clashed and chased each other over and over again. Now, it was just the two of them, with the rest of their comrades left behind, and that felt far too apt. There clearly was something strange and mystical happening with Nicolo, and through some cruel twist of fate or punishment or test from God, the only other person who was still there with him was…

The man in question climbed shakily to his hands and knees. He looked over at Nicolo and Nicolo looked back. For the first time, he did not see fear or even hatred in his expression. Instead, his face twisted in despair and confusion, and he sobbed once, loudly. He reached out again for the sword that he clearly had no real training in. If Nicolo was at all prideful over his own fighting skill, he would have felt shame that the man had managed to kill him as many times as he had. 

But no more. It was clearly accomplishing nothing and he was _tired_. So, when the man tried to stand again, Nicolo simply lifted one weak hand in a hopefully-understood gesture to stop. With his other hand, he pushed his own sword away from himself.

“Wait, no more,” he said, voice so raspy it was almost unrecognizable. 

He repeated it again in other languages he knew, seeing more than one flash of recognition, but the man remained suspicious. Nicolo concluded with the mixed-together language of the merchants and sailors, and finally, the man lowered his sword.

“No more?” he asked. "You won't kill anyone else?"

Nicolo fell back onto the ground. “No more,” he said again. 

A clatter suggested that the man had collapsed himself. Neither one said anything for quite some time. With the chance to truly assess the situation, Nicolo realized he was thirsty and hungry on top of everything else. It seemed like a silly concern, but it only added to his misery. As did the sudden thought that he was afraid to give into the exhaustion that nearly overwhelmed him – and not because the man might kill him again in his sleep. Because the man might leave him and then he’d be truly alone. 

Nicolo didn’t know how much time had passed when he heard rustling a few feet away again. He turned to look, and watched with curious concern as the man searched through his clothes. Then, he watched with jealousy as he removed a waterskin and drank greedily from it. 

After a few moments, the man stopped drinking, breathing heavily. He glanced at Nicolo suddenly, as if he felt his eyes on him. They made eye contact for a moment or two, and then he looked down at the container. He shifted to one side, leaning closer and holding it out to Nicolo. 

Nicolo stared at it, not quite ready to accept anything from him. 

“Drink,” the man said, miming the action as if Nicolo was too stupid to understand.

Annoyed, Nicolo took it from him. For that, he might just drink all that was left. 

But the relief of it calmed his temper and he _kindly_ spared some. He even reached into his own clothes to find some of the meager rations of dried food he still had tucked away, immediately breaking it and handing half – the slightly smaller half, he wasn’t that gracious – to the other man. 

He took it, stared at it for a moment, and took one skeptical bite. He clearly shared Nicolo’s opinion about the taste, but did not say anything about it.

“Thank you,” he grunted instead. 

They were silent again, finishing the morsel and then each taking another drink.

“I am Yusuf ibn Ibrahim ibn Muhammad ibn al-Kaysani, called al-Tayyib.”

Nicolo looked up in surprise at the polite introduction, so incongruous after all the ways they had already met death at each other’s hands.

“Nicolo…di Genova,” he replied, childishly wanting to come up with a few more names to match the other man’s quantity. He certainly wasn’t going to remember or use all those. 

“Do you – do you understand what has happened to us, Nicolo di Genova?”

He sounded so hesitantly hopeful that Nicolo couldn’t help but snort. “I am a simple priest,” he replied. “The only cases of coming back to life that I know about don’t really apply to either of us, I’m afraid.”

The man – Yusuf – gave him a short, unhappy smile in response. “I am a doctor, and I know of no examples of coming back to life like this.”

Nicolo laughed fully at that, and that reaction earned a confused but real smile from Yusuf. But soon enough, they both calmed and looked around their surroundings.

“What are you going to do?” Yusuf asked.

Nicolo shrugged. “I don’t know. I can’t go home. I can’t go back there,” he said, nodding towards the city. “I don’t know. Wander around until I figure something out.”

Yusuf nodded, and they sat quietly again, the silence bordering on companionable. 

“I will go with you,” Yusuf said suddenly and unexpectedly.

**

The fight was coming to an end. They had gained the upper hand. There was no real reason to kill the guard from earlier. But all Joe could think was this man had shot Nicolo. This man had mocked what they were to each other. This man had been involved in capturing and torturing Nicolo and the others.

Within seconds, he was sprawled at Joe’s feet, his neck snapped. 

There was a cacophony of sounds in the room – shouts and gunshots, glass and bones breaking – but all Joe could really hear was Nicolo’s breathing next to him. 

The guard was the first person that Joe intentionally killed since he and Nicolo had parted so many lifetimes ago. 

He didn’t regret it.

**

About 75 years after Nicolo left Yusuf, he was working for various traders along the Silk Road. It perhaps wasn’t the most noble way he had ever spent his time, but he was protecting honest and hardworking people against potential sources of danger. Life had started to become somewhat monotonous though – not that it had ever been particularly enjoyable and exciting since he’d been on his own – and while he had managed to never die in front of any of the people who hired him, he could tell there was some growing suspicion about his rarely changing appearance and even rarer wounds or illnesses. It was perhaps time to move on. Maybe he’d go north. Not to Britain, of course. That dirty little island held no appeal for him.

Before he could make up his mind to leave, though, new arrivals changed his plans entirely. The first woman didn’t stand out much; upon first glance, he thought she might have been one of the caravan from the East. She was familiar, so he knew he must have seen her before, but where or when exactly he had was difficult to pin down. 

It wasn’t until he saw her talking with the other woman, both of them occasionally looking at him, that he realized where he had seen them before. He and Yusuf had spoken of the dreams, the shared images just one of the many things neither of them could explain. It had been apparent that they were like them – far too many of the dreams featured one or both dying. But as they had no idea how to find them…

When they realized he had recognized them, they nodded at him. Unassumingly, so as not to attract attention, they slowly made their way over. Nicolo continued to clean and sharpen his sword, keeping one eye on them as they closed the distance, not quite sure he should trust them despite the friendly demeanors.

He would at least hear them out. Although he doubted it, they might have answers. If nothing else, it might be nice to be with someone who knew the truth again. 

Soon, they were close enough to speak. “Do you recognize us?” asked the taller one. 

Nicolo nodded. 

“We have been looking for you for many years,” she said, before looking around the group again. “Where is – the other one?” 

The unexpected question struck painfully. Maybe the details hadn’t quite been clear in their dreams. Whatever the reason, it took Nicolo a moment to recover before he could respond.

“Yusuf? I do not know. We have not traveled together for a long time.”

The two women looked at each other with surprised confusion. Nicolo sighed. He didn’t really want to explain it any further. “There is no point in looking for him,” he said definitively. “I have seen the way you live. He will not want to be with you anymore than he wanted to be with me.”

And that was all he said on the matter, no matter how many times and ways Andromache and Quynh tried to bring up the subject over the years. He never spoke of Yusuf to them again, at least not until Quynh didn’t wake up and he realized there might be a time when he no longer had the comfort of knowing that at least Yusuf was out there, somewhere, happy far away from him.

**

They had hit the safe house first, cleaned up and grabbed a change of clothes. Nicky felt a strange sort of thrill seeing Yusuf in his clothes – where they were a bit too loose on himself, they were a bit too tight on Yusuf, and that only added to Nicky’s enjoyment. He admitted to himself that he’d bought many clothes over the years that were too big, perhaps a way of holding onto Yusuf and how they at one point didn’t keep any distinction between which garments belonged to whom, as they were too poor to buy new things and just had to continually mend the few pieces they had anyway. Perhaps some of Booker’s items would have fit Yusuf better, but neither Nicky nor Yusuf suggested that when he pulled the clothing out of the storage.

Yusuf had sniffed it lightly before putting it on, and Nicky couldn’t help but wonder if he was concerned about how long it had been packed away between missions or if he was looking for a trace of Nicky on it. 

And then, once they were ready, they found the nearest pub. They needed food, and they needed drinks, and they needed somewhere semi-public to talk over the situation, so nobody accidentally snapped and killed Booker again. 

He was wandering around outside as they debated his fate. The options on the table were somewhere between the minimum 100 years Andy and Nicky were leaning towards and the apology that Nile had suggested. 

Nicky liked her. She reminded him a lot of Yusuf, actually.

As if to reinforce that point, Yusuf spoke up unexpectedly. “I know I don’t really have a say in the matter, but I agree with Nile. An exile would accomplish nothing.”

Nicky resisted the urge to respond, knowing anything he said in the heat of the moment probably wouldn’t accomplish anything either. Instead, he let Andy continue the conversation.

“What do you mean?” she asked with a quizzical turn of her head.

“He did this because he is depressed and lonely and tired, because he cannot see anything good in what we have. How would sending him away by himself make him a _better_ , happier, more trusted team member a century from now?”

Nicky looked at Andy again, raising his eyebrows to acknowledge the point without being overt about it. 

“There has to be a price,” Andy argued.

“So, it’s about revenge.” 

Nicky lifted his glass to hide his smile in his drink. A part of him missed these little philosophical digs of Yusuf’s, usually designed to get Nicky to stop and think but often, unfortunately, not very successful.

“No.” Andy shook her head, seeming slightly confused. “No, it’s about – about safety, about family, about – ”

“Isn’t family about love and forgiveness, about sticking together and helping someone who is struggling?”

And then Nicky’s smile dropped. It hurt more than he wanted to admit that Yusuf seemed far more willing to give Booker a chance to change – or even just to be himself but still be loved – than he’d ever given Nicky. 

“What do you know about our family?” he gritted out in sudden anger. 

Yusuf turned to him. They stared at each other for a long moment, and if Nicky wasn’t so stuck in his own feelings, he might have been able to interpret the stormy emotions in Yusuf’s eyes. 

“Nothing,” he admitted, sounding sad. “But I know what it’s like to be alone.”

Nicky exhaled sharply, feeling the weight of all those years by himself, after Yusuf and before Andy and Quynh. All those years even after the two women, when he still longed for – 

“No one forced you,” he pointed out firmly, before pushing back from the table and walking away.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Change in tags:** I've decided to bump this up to explicit. I never know where to draw the line. :D

Nile watched with burning curiosity and just a little bit of alarm as Nicky stormed off and then, moments later, as Joe mumbled an apology and also disappeared out the door but in the opposite direction. She looked over at Andy, raising one eyebrow inquisitively.

“What was that all about?”

Andy closed her eyes, shook her head and took a sip of her beer.

“They should have just fucked a thousand years ago and gotten it over with,” Andy finally said. 

Nile made a considering expression, nodding slowly as she looked again at the door both had walked out of. That explained quite a few things.

And also made for a very appealing mental image. 

She indulged in it for a while, until eventually they both returned, calmer but quiet. Without another word, Andy went to talk to Booker. The silence at the table soon became uncomfortably tense, and Nile _had to_ break it.

“So,” she said with exaggerated cheer, turning to Joe. “ _Yusuf_ , you’re a doctor?”

He blinked, surprised or confused by the question. Perhaps because he was still distracted by the way he and Nicky had been pointedly _not_ looking at each other since they had both come back to the table. 

“Yes,” he finally said. 

“Do you ever think, like, ‘man, remember when we used to think bloodletting helped?’ Or – oh! Like, when ye olde misogynists thought wombs would just like _wander_ around the body.”

Joe smiled rather fondly at her, his eyes crinkling. “Ignorance itself isn’t a bad thing,” he pointed out. “Choosing not to learn and adapt when you know better is.” As if taking his own advice, he glanced at Nicky and made an effort to include him in the conversation. “I would side-eye Nicolo if he used a crossbow now instead of a gun.”

Nicky gave them both a look that suggested amusement, even if it didn’t actually show it. “There’s a time and place for a crossbow, even now.”

Joe raised his eyebrows then shrugged as if to say _fair enough_. “There’s a time and place for leeches, even these days.”

Nile laughed out loud, and then giggled even more when she saw Joe’s self-satisfied grin and Nicky’s slight blush and barely-controlled smile.

**

After Andy recruited – if that word can be used for the threat it really was – Copley, they continued to look around the room at the various photographs and documents recording their long lives. Joe stepped closer to where Nicolo stood, vaguely smiling at a student ID from the 1990s.

“You went to university?” Joe asked. 

“Many times,” Nicolo replied, his smile growing wider. “I think this one was for literature. Did you think it was all mercenary work?”

The question wasn’t hostile, so Joe didn’t let it rile him up into a response. Instead he moved again, finding an older picture of Nicolo, this time in a uniform and kneeling as he dressed a wound on the arm of the child in front of him.

It was impossible to ignore or deny the overwhelming _goodness_ in the pictures, even without Copley’s explanations. And Joe acknowledged what he always knew but tried to convince himself otherwise in his loneliest and saddest moments, blinded by his prejudice and his regret that made him blame the other man for his own mistakes. Nicolo’s existence was not all violent death and wanton destruction and callous disregard for life. Nico – and perhaps he should call him Nicky. He wasn’t Nicolo anymore, not the one Joe had known at any rate and definitely not the one he had sometimes feared he was or would become. _Nicky_ was a good man. 

“Everything I know about first aid, I learned from you.” 

Joe startled slightly, not realizing Nicky had followed him. Then, he forced a chuckle. “Even if I didn’t know that was a lie, I would hope it was. Nile was right – a lot has changed.”

Nicky laughed, and the sound did _things_ to Joe. “OK, but you taught me the basics.”

Their conversation was interrupted before Joe could reply further. Copley stepped up next to them, indicating the boards with a nod. 

“If I had known about you, I would have researched you as well. If you want, I can look to see what I can find.”

Nicky turned to Joe with excitement in his eyes. But when he spoke again, it was Copley he addressed.

“You will need at least 10 or 12 more boards for Joe alone, I am sure.”

Joe felt warm all over – the blush on his face, the flutter of butterflies in his stomach, the happy clench of his heart, and OK, yes, the flow of blood _down_ too. He turned away, attempting to hide his reaction.

**

“Can I ask you something?”

Nicky looked over, even as they walked ever closer to Joe’s flat. Maybe it would have been wiser to have just dropped him off without coming up as well, or let him find his own way back in the very city he lived in, or had one of the others take him home instead. Anything that would have meant he could have avoided another fraught goodbye. Nicky didn’t know if he was strong enough. He had already started to think that maybe this time, he’d – he shook his head quickly to clear it.

“Yes, of course.”

“Are you mad that Andy told Booker he could stay?”

Nicky hesitated, wanting to give the question the consideration it deserved and not just the answer he thought Joe would want to hear. “No,” he finally said.

Joe glanced at him quickly, but didn’t speak, patiently waiting to see if Nicky wanted to say anything else. Nicky worked his mouth for a moment, and then decided to be honest. 

“But I don't forgive him yet and may never. If it had just been me, maybe…” he trailed off, letting Joe fill in the rest of the sentence. “But he put Andy and Nile and – and you at risk.”

“I only went there with Nile because they had you,” Joe said quietly but clearly. 

Nicky inhaled, about to respond when Joe stopped just outside a door. He realized it must have been his flat. Nicky blinked, then changed the subject. He couldn’t let this be it, not without _trying_.

“Can I ask you something?”

Joe nodded once.

He wanted it to sound teasing, seductive maybe, but the “Do you really dream of my kiss?” came out far too hopeful instead. 

Joe laughed loudly, clearly both embarrassed and surprised by the question. “Ah,” he said, turning to look down the hall and nodding a couple times. He looked back at Nicky. “You heard that, huh?”

Nicky’s smile grew into a grin, but he suspected the hint of fear he felt was still visible around the edges. That feeling grew as well when Joe avoided answering and turned to unlock the door instead. He walked inside, leaving it open enough that the invitation was obvious. 

Nicky stepped inside, breathing deeply as he closed the door. Almost immediately, he recoiled and made an involuntary noise of disgust. 

“Yeah, let me get rid of this,” Joe said, already walking to some rotting food on the coffee table. “And then I will grab some things and then we can go,” Joe said.

Nicky furrowed his brow, beginning to wonder if he had misunderstood when Joe said he needed to go home. 

“Go? What do you mean?” he asked, a nervous hope starting to bubble up inside him.

Joe was frustratingly silent and noticeably tense as he tied the trash bag in the kitchen, then washed his hands. He finally turned to look at Nicky with an expression of open, concerned confusion. “I…thought I’d come with you? Wherever you’re going next?”

Nicky felt like maybe he had a tiny heart attack, and he wondered if he was about to keel over dead in Joe’s flat. His response, or lack thereof, apparently gave the wrong impression, though, and Joe shook his head hurriedly. 

“Never mind, I – ”

“No, it’s just – ” 

They both fell silent again, and then Nicky blurted, “I was thinking I’d ask if I could stay.”

“Stay?” Joe whispered.

Nicky shrugged. “I guess I figured you wouldn’t want to leave your hospital position just yet.”

“You want to stay?” Joe asked, clearly still not understanding. “In London?”

Nicky exhaled and just _said_ it, finally. “I want to stay with you.” Joe’s dumbfounded blink oddly gave him a bit more courage, and so he kept going. “What did you say? Choosing not to learn and adapt – ”

“I’m tired of just dreaming about you,” Joe interrupted, his words like little bullets he spit them out so urgently. 

Nicky inhaled sharply, then blinked away tears as he smiled. He stepped closer to Joe. “We have 900 years to make up for,” he pointed out. “Nine hundred years of dreams that are very different from the ones we’ve had about the others.”

Joe nodded, moving closer as well. 

“Might be nice to see if those dreams are at all realistic,” Nicky hinted.

Joe reached out and pulled him into a kiss.

**

This time, their kiss was neither painful nor frantic. It was slow, gentle, romantic even. It was as if they finally understood this was not a goodbye but a new beginning, that they both wanted it. Joe pressed both hands to Nicky’s face, holding him tenderly as he deepened the kiss and slipped his tongue inside Nicky’s mouth. With a small moan, Nicky wrapped his own arms around Joe, letting his fingers dig into the curls of Joe’s hair.

They moved closer still, their bodies coming into contact. Joe wanted to cry with relieved happiness, and the little gasps of disbelieving pleasure from Nicky didn’t exactly help in that regard. They separated just enough to breathe, tilting their heads to press their foreheads together.

“Do you – can we – I – ” Joe stuttered.

“Yes.”

Joe didn’t know what exactly he had been trying to ask, or what exactly Nicky had agreed to, but he eventually decided what they both meant was _everything_. And soon enough, Joe was guiding them both towards the bedroom, neither of them stopping their exploratory kisses long enough to get there without stubbing one or two toes, which they probably wouldn’t have noticed even if they hadn’t healed immediately. 

They toppled side by side onto the bed, snickering against each other’s lips as they bounced on the mattress.

“How do you want to do this?” Joe asked, knowing his own answer was something incredibly gushy like _however Nicky wanted to, just as long as they didn’t stop_.

And Nicky gave perhaps the most promising answer possible, when he joked, “First, you mean?”

Joe laughed. “Yes, obviously. First.”

Nicky rolled to his back, grinning as he unbuttoned his jeans and watched Joe reach out for the bedside table. 

“We’ll have to make a list later,” he teased, not waiting for Joe to respond before he repositioned himself onto his side and looked back at Joe with a clear invitation in his eyes.

Slightly confused, Joe shifted closer, impressing even himself with his multitasking as he popped the lid on the bottle and unbuttoned and pushed his pants down with his other hand. 

“Like this?”

“Mmm,” Nicky responded, his affirmation turning into a moan as Joe began to kiss his neck. 

Neither of them said much of anything for a while after that. Joe was too busy placing love bites wherever he could reach, admiring the way that Nicky’s skin reddened then turned back to normal again. He wondered how long and hard he’d have to suck to make the bruise last longer than a few fleeting moments. He’d experiment later, though, because the sounds Nicky was making were too distracting. He supposed he only had himself to blame, though, because it was his fingers brushing against Nicky’s prostate.

He pressed in harder and deeper, rubbing the tips of his fingers right over the spot that made Nicky tremble. Nicky reached one hand behind him, grasping the back of Joe’s head with a grip that was somehow both weak with pleasure yet almost too strong. Joe leaned over Nicky’s body to take in the sight of his cock getting nice and thick. 

“I used to think about this all the time,” Nicky said, his voice slurred. Joe wondered if he even realized he had slipped into his old dialect, the one that he suspected only the two of them would still understand. “Every time we woke up together, or fell asleep together,” he murmured, “I would hope that, instead of pulling away, you would – ”

“Wait,” Joe interrupted, purposely choosing to reply in the language he had first taught Nicky so long ago. He had needed to accept many things he had been wrong about over the years, but if he had been as foolish and blind as Nicky’s words were suggesting… “You wanted this back then? Do not tell me this, my heart, or I will never forgive myself.”

Nicky paused and then his whole body shook as he chuckled. “Sorry. I would have done this with you anytime, anywhere.”

Joe groaned, burying his face in Nicky’s neck. But Nicky did not let him mourn all those lost years too long. Indeed, when he spoke again, Joe could hear the smile in his voice. 

“It is nice, though, that we get to do this with a real mattress and proper hygiene, at least. I was afraid I was being too – _oh God, that feels good_ – too optimistic in the shower earlier, but it turns out – ”

Partly to punish him for the teasing and partly because he just couldn’t wait _one second_ longer, Joe pulled out his fingers, replacing them with his cock in a steady, smooth motion that made Nicky whine and then sigh. 

“And we get to do this with decent lube,” Joe pointed out, a bit shakily considering he was trying not to come.

Nicky laughed again, breathless but loud, with a little snort at the end. Joe wondered how long it’d been since he laughed like that, and wondered if he’d ever get tired of being the one to make Nicky so happy. He doubted it. 

“Yes, obviously,” Nicky agreed. “Lube.”

Things did turn urgent and even a bit rough then, the humor giving way to passion as they moved together. Joe rocked his hips, grinding a little every third or fourth time, wondering how he had resisted this for so long. Nicky’s hand kept flying around; sometimes his fingers dug into Joe’s thigh and sometimes they intertwined with Joe’s own fingers around Nicky’s cock. Once, Nicky’s hand returned to Joe’s head, holding him close as he twisted around to kiss him hungrily. Joe jacked his fist faster and faster, his other hand splayed across Nicky’s chest, tugging him ever closer, but feeling like they could never be close enough to satisfy him. They did not speak again, not with words anyway, until they both came with shouts and shudders. 

Eventually, Joe pulled out and Nicky turned to face him, a soft smile on his face underneath smoldering eyes. He reached out and rested his palm against Joe’s cheek briefly, before leaning closer and giving him a quick, closed-mouth kiss. 

“How did it compare to your dreams?” he asked.

“Better,” Joe answered needlessly.

They kissed again, mouths slipping away from each other so they could connect instead with cheeks, temples, chins. Joe whispered _I love you_ into Nicky’s neck. 

“I love you,” Nicky replied, in a clear and loud voice, not too scared to say it like Joe had been, even then.

Joe pulled back, looked into Nicky’s eyes, and said it again, this time with no hesitation. “Always have,” he added. 

Their next kiss was even more heated, reminding Joe that accelerated healing extended even to refractory periods. Nicky rolled on top of him, thrusting his hips to drive home that particular…point. 

“Your turn?” Nicky declared. “How do you want to do this second?”

“Are we going to take turns and keep count?” Joe asked, grinning at the ceiling.

Nicky shrugged, even as he continued to pepper kisses all over Joe’s face. “Not forever. I don’t think numbers go that high.”

Joe’s bark of laughter rang through the room.

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, on one hand, this is where I always planned to end it, and I do feel like it is satisfactorily “done”. On the other hand, I haven’t ruled out coming back to this universe to see how exactly they get to know each other again, actually deal with their differences, figure out how to live with a real person rather than a fantasy, and whether or not they ever join back up with the others. And, of course, how Joe wanted to do it second (and fourth and sixth and…). ;) No promises, though. I have other ideas I want to mess around with first, and fic I still “owe” to other fandoms too.
> 
> This whole AU came around because of a comment on a FandomSecrets post that said something to the effect of it making sense that they were all military of some sort because that was the only kind of profession that would be both ancient and consistently necessary/relevant for “helping humanity” throughout history. Which is, of course, bull shit and misses the point of the scenes at Copley’s house, if not of the whole movie. Anyway, some of the skimming I did on Islamic medicine was quite interesting, even if I didn’t use much, if any of it, so read up on it if you have the time. (The first version of this AU was going to be from the POV of an immortal healer/midwife who had first died after being hung for witchcraft, and who had followed the Old Guard through time, cleaning up their messes. She would have had a very different perspective on whether they were the good guys or bad guys. I still kind of want to write that one too, but I ~~probably~~ won’t.)


End file.
